The Elephant Man's Mistress
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: It is the duty of an actress to pay tribute to the great artists of her time... The elephant man, John Merrick, has died a tragically poetic death; one who long ago considered him a friend has come to say farewell. Based on the play by Bernard Pomerance


**The Elephant Man's Mistress**

* * *

_Based on the play by Bernard Pomerance._

_This story is inspired by the play, 'The Elephant Man' - both the written text, and a small snippet featuring David Bowie in the title role that is circulating on YouTube. I highly recommend it; it exceeded all my expectations. In particular, his performance of the 'Romeo' scene was tremendous._

_This story features the character Madge Kendal as she appeared in the play, and is in no way based on the real-life Mrs. Madge Kendal, whom though she kept a written correspondence with the real Joseph Carey Merrick and organized a network of acquaintances for him, never actually met him face to face. Such was the bond between though, however, that Merrick gifted Mrs. Kendal with his completed church model._

_This story is more of a dramatic monologue with introduction and conclusion, based on an idea that came to me and a belief that this is how the play should have ended._

_I hope you enjoy my interpretation._

_~ W.J._

* * *

The funeral procession, as it were, was made up purely of the elite, the affluent, and the wealthy of London society. Attracting such mourners was quite a feat for a lower-class citizen, even an extraordinary one, let alone one so repulsive that even the very lowest dredges of society were loathe to be in his presence. And yet, Mr. Treves could not feel any real pride in such an accomplishment. Nor did he feel much elation in his impending acquisition of the title 'Sir' before his name. He wasn't sure in either case whether adulation had been earned for the right reasons. In an age when women were praised for their beauty whilst they punished – no, _destroyed_ – their own bodies, strangling themselves with ill-fitting corsets…

The visitors were all dressed in somber black, and likewise wore suitable expressions of solemn dignity. Treves wondered vaguely whether they felt any actual remorse at the passing of the 'elephant man', or mere annoyance that they must now find a new recipient for their charity. Appearing compassionate was fashionable among the inner circles. Quite a few came, and none stayed long. Most didn't even approach the bed, where there lay sprawled the countenance that had been disconcerting enough in life, and was downright disturbing when viewed in death. Most of the socialites from the old days attended – numerous countesses and duchesses, gentle ladies of high society who had once condescended to subject themselves to his presence, even going so far as to provide him with the most beautiful, if rather useless, presents at Christmas time. Even Princess Alexandra herself paid a brief farewell visit, trailing various attendants, whom she graciously left waiting out in the hallway whilst she paid her last respects. This was, after all, an exclusive minority to which they belonged; not many had been admitted to this inner sanctum, deep within the draughty halls and musty wards of London Hospital.

There were, however, two notable omissions from this illustrious list of mourners. The first was Lord John, that swindler and gambler, who had not once returned to the hospital since the evening rags had printed his name in their gaudy headlines, and whose reputation still lay in tattered shreds outside Mr. Gomm's office. The other also had not been to the hospital at all of recent, although at one time she had been Mr. Merrick's most oft-visiting patron, and had indeed been the very first, admitted to his acquaintance before it had even become fashionable. A few women from the theatre came, but one was conspicuously absent…

It was not until late in the evening, just as Mr. Treves was about to lock the door, ready for when a team of surgeons arrived the next day to assist him with the autopsy, that he saw the forlorn figure of a woman standing at the top of the stairwell. He greeted her with a cold civility, for her last visit and its… _indiscretion_ was still fresh in his mind. However, though a man of science, he was still a theatergoer himself on occasion, and he could not help but be affected by her dramatic appearance. Perhaps its power lay in his sneaking suspicion that it was not an act at all. Whilst the others had all been adorned in their blackest finery, all topped with gleaming gold rings and luxurious ruffles of black lace, she wore a plain black gown that was almost severe of its simplicity, and her face was without make-up save for the barest dusting of powder. Even in the dim corridor, her eyes were visibly red-rimmed, as though she had been crying. She very humbly begged admittance, and Treves felt himself compelled to grudgingly grant it. He still could not shake the feeling that perhaps that last time, it had been he who had acted indecently. She had a young hangers-on with her, a male accessory as such, whom she requested wait for her downstairs in the foyer. The young actor hovered uncertainly, then conceded, obediently retreating to the lower level. It was only when his echoing footsteps had receded into silence that she entered the room, requesting a little time alone, and gently shutting the door behind her, effectively dismissing Treves from this intimate reunion.

She stood for a moment on the threshold, reacquainting herself with the surroundings. A superb cardboard model of St Phillip's stood on the central table; it had been only half-finished when last she had seen it. She crossed the room with a cautious tread, as though she feared she would wake the room's sole occupant. She approached the bedside a little fearfully. It was so strange to see this thing – this being that had once been possessed of a such an utterly refined and sensitive nature, now lying silent and motionless. So pure that soul had been in its childlike innocence, almost angelic; an inner beauty had seemed to eclipse its repulsive exterior. Now it was reduced to just a monstrous pile of meat – a grotesque pantomime costume of an ogre or troll, all putty and papier mâché, lying discarded on the dressing room floor. Divorced from the artist whose talent and charisma it had once housed, that was all it was. A superficial shell.

The bulbous head, which when he had been found had been tilted back at an unnatural angle, had been propped up on pillows, though this prone attitude was still as foreign to him in life as it was natural in death. His one good hand was draped delicately over his chest, like a single white lily that had been laid upon his breast. The stool that he had used to prop his walking stick upon, so that it would be close at hand when he woke, was still by his bedside, though Treves had moved the stick itself, as it had been a present from Lord John and though not nearly as expensive as it looked, was still quite handsome and may have otherwise been pilfered by a passing orderly. She seated herself on the stool, sweeping her skirts out as she sat, more out of habit than out of any genuine consideration.

She merely sat for a moment, contemplating the sight before her, until she at last spoke, somewhat tentatively, feeling slightly foolish. An actress performing to empty stalls.

"I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Merrick."

In contrast to the multiple powerful deliveries she had once given Treves outside this very room - or the words she had spoken to Merrick himself when he had been alive, when they had been imbued with an absolute sincerity - the phrase now sounded hollow, intoned with much irony. She uttered it in little more than a hoarse whisper, yet it seemed to stir the quietude of the room. She smiled, but her lips twisted obediently, without any real humour. Her eyes were dull and looked almost tragic, so large and dark against her pallid skin.

"I strongly suspect that you grew tired of hearing that phrase. All just words; they don't really mean that much. I meant it when I said it, though. It wasn't just a highly-flavoured performance. I meant every word." She paused, groping slowly for what to say next. "You said when we first met that I was a famous actress. Well. Those are just words as well, aren't they? I certainly couldn't say they're true any more. I'm not sure if they were ever true. I guess at the time I didn't realize the difference between being 'famous' and 'well-known'. I didn't realize, I suppose, because I didn't want to. There is a difference, you know – things just happening, like you being born the way you are- um, _were_; or people _choosing_ the way they should happen, like me choosing not to notice that I wasn't half as celebrated and admired as I imagined myself to be."

"I'm not with my old theatre company any more, you know," she continued almost conversationally. "The director showed me the door, just like that. Said my performance wasn't being conveyed effectively to the audience any more. Just wasn't strong enough, dramatic enough. Somehow, I almost blame you for that," she added almost fondly. "After I met you, I couldn't be half as fake anymore. Little by little the disguise peeled away, like grease paint melting before the footlights. I just couldn't bring myself to be so false any more. Because I finally saw through the charade. I saw myself from without – the empty tears, the selfish tantrums, the monologues which seemed to be so stuffed full of empty words. I saw it all, and it suddenly seemed so ridiculous that I wondered that the audience didn't laugh at how absurd and pointless it all was. All those myriad performances; all those empty emotions, conjured up at a mere moment's notice. Hope, joy, trust, betrayal, sadness, anger, love – and none of it was real. It was all just an illusion. I realized then that I had spent years in a pointless profession, trying to make them all seem real, when they never would be, never could be. Nothing I could do would ever even come close."

She reached out, hesitating only slightly, then lifted the hand from his breast and held it tenderly. It was cold in her grasp – cold and white and delicate as a snowflake. It seemed impossible that it could be attached to such a hideously pitiable body, when that one hand was so beautiful, so perfect. Any lady might have envied it.

"You made me real, you know. Sometimes I almost wish I was still false. It has effectively destroyed my career. You know what I am now?" She gave that lifeless hand a little shake, as though prompting it for an answer. "A bit-part player; a miserably conceited little understudy, getting nothing but walk-on two-line roles, and really only worth as much. That's all I am; a hack, has-been thespian. "Sometimes I wish I had never met you; that I had never seen through the charade, looked past the characters at the actress beneath."

She spoke these words with some vehemence; then, she relented and stroked the back of the hand gently, almost consolingly. "But that would be just more empty words, wouldn't it? What would be the point of going on like that? If there were a point, I would never have seen it, blind as I was; indeed, I doubt there would have been a point to any of it if I had ever even stopped to look for it. Such pains I used to take over the most meaningless things – which powder to use, how much of it; which corset had the strongest laces; whether my hair was coiffed high enough; whether my costume was eye-catching enough compared to those of the leading man and supporting actresses. What was it all, but meaningless layers which were donned and then shed, one by one, replaced by countless others, only to be discarded again? Like a butterfly growing out its wings, never impressed enough by their colours to be satisfied, always changing them for others and never thinking to try to use them to fly.

"I may not be flying yet, but you made me realize there was a sky out there, John. I saw the layers for what they were, and realized that what lay beneath them was… nothing. Nothing more than a cocoon of illusions. Yet somehow you gave me something, helped me to create myself. That time… when you _saw_ me… you saw more than any man who has gone to bed with me. It was only since I met you that I had anything worth revealing. Before that, I was an empty husk… a corset with a heart beating beneath the laces. At last I can honestly say, here before you: this is myself. Such a shame, then, that this is no longer _you_."

"What would you think of me now, John? You said that last time that real women seem to have a ripeness; a pinnacle at which they stop. I never reached that perfect point, John. I was never ready to stop. But yet, I am _real_ now." She took that pale, cold hand and lay it, palm up, against her own heart. "Can you see now, John? I _am_ real, as real and wretched and ugly as you are. No, that's not right. Once you were beautiful. And you made me hope that I could become beautiful, too. How did you make that happen, John?" she asked, shaking the hand again, as though shaking it might wake its owner. "Did one of your dreams escape from you, and attach itself to me? Is that why you did this to yourself – to set your dreams free? Or were you sick of being fooled by the endless illusions, as I was? Always pining after some elusive vision on the horizon, wavering like a mirage, but no matter how you strove, it never came closer, never became real? But _you_ were real, John. Why _did_ you do this to yourself? Don't you remember what you said, John, back when I first met you? That if you were Romeo, you would've gotten away? Is that why you did it, John? To get away from here, when you realized that everything here was just an illusion? Oh, why, John, _why did you do it_?!"

She bent her head and wept bitterly upon his chest, his single white, perfect hand baptized by her tears. At last she sat up, regaining some form of composure, though the powder on her face was streaked by wet lines. She could hear Treves' impatient step in the corridor outside. She knew he would come to fetch her soon; to send her back out into that fake, frivolous world. "You were the only real thing here, John," she said softly. "You somehow made me real; even your beautiful model church seems more real to my eye than the one I can see out through the window. That one could be a painted cloth backdrop for all I care. Props, that's all it is – nothing but petty, useless props!"

She surveyed the room, looking scornfully at all the expensive toiletries given to him as presents, the items which even Treves, with his constant insistence on mindlessly imitating some proposed ideal of 'normalcy', had deemed to be useless. None of them spoke anything about their owner, try as she might to find some remaining spark of his wondrous personality amongst all this superfluous clutter. They were as ordinary and emotionless as props made from cardboard and paste...

No, perhaps not all useless – it caught her eye, resting on a ledge by the washstand. An ivory-handled shaving razor.

Like one in a dream, she got up and crossed the floor to it. Almost reverently, she lifted it; meticulously, she flipped out the blade. It gleamed at her, like a crescent moon in the evening-darkened room. She tested it against her fingertip, wincing as a red line formed on the pale skin, spilling a single drop of blood. It was brand new, never been used, still as sharp as it had ever been. She clutched it, returning to his side with a renewed purposefulness in her tread.

"I hoped this would still be here. Not quite a 'happy dagger', but it will suffice." She leaned over him, looking into his face. She had grown accustomed to that face, to the point where she could look at it for hours at a time without sickening; and yet, it was so much harder to see it now, without that gentle and noble spirit looking back at her from beneath it. She leaned closer; like a world-weary Juliet searching for traces of poison.

"Is this what happens when dreams cannot get out, Mr. Merrick? Either they destroy you from within, or in trying to set them free, you destroy yourself? At least they are free now. You may not be real any more, but you _are_ free." She smiled sweetly as she knelt on the edge of the bed; an achingly sad smile.

"I suppose this is how the _real _Juliet felt…"

* * *

It was the young actor who grew impatient and came in search of her. He encountered a distressed Treves still standing outside the closed door, pacing frenetically. They both knocked, then bellowed through the keyhole; finally getting no answer to either, Treves burst through the door with an impending sense of dread.

She lay sprawled atop the corpse that already lay upon the bed. Her heavy black skirts hid from view the stubby feet that had been far too large and misshapen to somehow stuff into shoes. Her hair, falling loose and free, hid his face from view like a death shroud. Her own face was turned to one side, and wore an expression that may have been either anguish or bliss. Treves' medical training did not at all help him to discern which it was. In one hand, she clutched the handle of the razor that lay beside her, making a line of red upon the white sheet; her other hand hung limply over the side of the bed, spilled blood pooling on the floor beneath it. His hand hung down beside hers, and she clasped it weakly in her stiff white fingers; like flowers on a vine growing intertwined, red and white roses just coming into bloom.

Whether Treves could still do anything for her was out of the question, though the youth hysterically implored him. Her soul had already flown far away.

* * *

Many wondered afterwards why she had done it. Some said that perhaps she had felt guilt over having abandoned the elephant man prior to his death. Others spitefully claimed that her despair in her hopelessly failing career had driven her to take her own life in such a sensational way; a final bid to attract a sufficient audience. The police questioned Treves, but he could give no answer, except that the poor woman must've been disturbed in her mind, and that he wished he could have helped her before she had gone so far.

After it happened, Treves came into the habit of keeping a small picture of her in a frame, standing upon a shelf in his office. In years to come, long after the name Madge Kendal had faded from public consciousness, young colleagues who visited his office for a consultation on some case or another would politely ask if it was a picture of his wife.

No, he would reply, it wasn't. It was the face of Juliet.


End file.
